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■ ' 



Reading as a Fine Art. 



BY 



ERNEST LEG0UVE, 

OF THE ACADEMIE FRANCAISE. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE NINTH EDITION 
BY 

ABBY LANGDON ALGER. 



„ -"7 



r- 






BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1879. 



~N 






Copyright, 1878, 
By Roberts Brothers. 



Cambridge : 
Press of John Wilson &° Son. 



TO THE SCHOLARS 



OF 



THE HIGH AND NORMAL SCHOOL. 



For you this sketch was written : permit me to dedicate 
it to you; in fact, to intntst it to your care. Pupils to-day, 
to-morrow you will be teachers ; to-morrow, generation after 
generation of youth will pass through your guardian hands. 
An idea received by you, must of necessity reach thousands of 
7ninds. Help me, then, to spread abroad the work in which 
you have some share, and allow me to add to the great 
pleastcre of having numbered you among my hearers the 
still greater happiness of calling you my assistants. 

E. LEGOUVE. 
Paris, April, 1877. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Part jft'rst 

Chap. Pagb 

I. First Steps. — How I learned to read . 7 

II. Should we read as we talk? 18 

III. Technical Part of the Art of Reading. 

The Voice 25 

IV. The Art of Breathing ' 32 

V. Pronunciation 39 

VI. Stuttering 43 

VII. Punctuation 47 

Part Seconti. 

reading made eloquent in poetry and prose. 

I. Readers and Speakers 51 

II. Reading as a Means of Criticism ... 61 

III. On Reading Poetry 67 

IV. A Reading at the House of a Great 

Actress 81 

V. Closing Words , 94 



READING AS A FINE ART. 



o>€<o 



PART FIRST. 



CHAPTER I. 

FIRST STEPS. — HOW I LEARNED TO READ. 

Nothing is small in the great matter of educa- 
tion ; and secondary as the question we are to treat 
may be, it is important, from the simple fact that 
it points to progress to be made in the art of in- 
struction. In America, reading aloud is considered 
one of the chief studies in public schools, — one of 
the bases of primary education. In France, it is 
not even reckoned an accomplishment ; it is re- 
garded as something strange and unnecessary, 
almost as an affectation. I desire to contest this 
prejudice, and to contribute my mite towards intro- 
ducing the art of reading into our customs and the 
list of school duties. 

In the first place, is reading an art ? Many doubt 



8 READING AS A FINE ART. 

it ; some deny it. For myself, thirty years of study 
and experience have convinced me that it is an art 
as difficult as it is substantial, as useful as it is 
difficult of attainment ; and this I hope to prove 
logically, but without becoming wearisome. Let 
me choose my own way to reach this end, and tell 
you the story of my own progress. 

I was always extremely fond of reading aloud, 
this being an inherited taste ; for my father was es- 
teemed one of the most famous readers, I may say, 
one of the best teachers of his day. When Mile. 
Duchesnois made her debut, the programme read : 
" Mile. Duchesnois, pupil of M. Legouve." Does 
not this prove that elocution and the theatre were 
more highly valued, if not more honored, then than 
now ? What member of the Academy would venture 
now to join his name on a play-bill with that of an 
actress ? I, of course, am out of the question ; for 
the love of elocution was born and bred in me, with 
a fellow-feeling for the actor, for which I have often 
been blamed, but which I hope I shall never out- 
live. As a boy at school, I organized a little 
troop of actors of my own age, who spent their 
vacation-hours in reciting whole acts of Racine, 
Corneille, and Moliere to family and friends. All 
parts seemed good to me, — kings, lovers, servants, 



FIRST STEPS. 9 



and noble fathers ; nothing staggered my youthful 
ardor. I even played the tragedy queen, on occa- 
sion, in imitation of antiquity. Of course, it was 
rough, unequal, stagey, and bombastic ; my voice 
was often hoarse : but beneath all the froth and 
fustian lurked some grains of truth and feeling, 
which kept my heart warm with the wholesome 
fever of admiration. 

On leaving school, a happy accident introduced 
me to a fine teacher of elocution. 

I was to read one of my first poetical efforts, 
" The Two Mothers," at the Conservatory, before 
the Philotechnic Society. On reciting it to my 
master, M. Bouilly, he exclaimed : " My boy, you 
don't set off your wares for what they 're worth ! 
Go ask my friend, M. Febve, to give you a few les- 
sons." These lessons opened my eyes : they taught 
what I never dreamed, that elocution has its gram- 
mar; and M. Febve also gave me a most useful bit 
of advice. " The Conservatory Hall," said he, " is 
like a good Stradivarius : no violin is more sweetly 
resonant ; the sounds that you confide to those 
melodious walls will return to you fuller and more 
mellow than ever; the voice plays upon them as 
the fingers on an instrument. Be careful not to 
raise your voice too much ; and remember one im- 



IO READING AS A FINE ART. 

portant rule : the voice should always be adapted 
and proportioned, not only to the size, but to the 
acoustic qualities of the hall spoken in." 

My next teacher was — my profession. Being a 
dramatist, I was thrown constantly with that class 
of artists whose first condition of success is fine 
elocution, — namely, actors. My successive plays 
showed me the method of work of the most famous 
tragedians and comedians of the day, — Samson, 
Regnier, Delaunay, and Got. I questioned them, 
studied them, and worked with them. From them 
I learned the amount of time and trouble required 
for the mastery of the voice ; they showed me the 
calculation, close reasoning, and skill requisite to 
choose between one inflection, one accent, and an- 
other ; and lastly, a lucky chance brought me into 
active communion with the three brightest theatri- 
cal stars of the past forty years, — Mile. Mars, Mile. 
Rachel, and Mme. Ristori. 

" Louise de Lignerolles," my first play, and one 
of Mile. Mars's final creations, required no less than 
sixty-eight rehearsals ; which proved a profitable, 
though a severe school to me, for Mile. Mars's pow- 
ers of mimicry served her mocking spirit wondrous 
well. Although I had some good points as reader 
and speaker, I had but little experience, and, like 



FIRST STEPS. II 



all young men, was given to exaggeration ; but, 
whenever my directions to the actors became in 
the least declamatory or bombastic, Mars would 
imitate me with a grain of caricature that made 
me ridiculous. I bit my lip with rage, but was 
silent, accepting the hint and striving to profit 
by it. 

She once gave me a fine lesson. Coming to re- 
hearsal, tired, out of sorts, and ill-disposed to forget 
herself in her part, she found us at the second act, 
which contains one scene requiring great action 
and energy. She went through it in an undertone, 
almost without a motion ; still, every effect, every 
shade of meaning, was expressed and plainly visible. 
It was like a picture seen from a distance, or 
a strain of music heard from afar. This was a 
revelation to me. I now understood the firm basis 
upon which the art of delivery must rest, when a 
great artist could thus extinguish her own person- 
ality, if I may so express it, without destroying pro- 
portions, harmony, or general effect. 

The name of Rachel will always be connected to 
me with a memorable morning which we spent to- 
gether. The point in question was a certain scene 
in " Louise de Lignerolles," which Rachel was to 
play after Mars had done so. It does not contain 



12 READING AS A FINE ART. 

more than thirty lines, which thirty lines Mile. 
Rachel and I studied for three long hours ; and 
never before did that admirable artist's power of 
attention, subtle spirit, and true modesty so astound 
and instruct me. What a lesson it was to us both ! 
With what ardor we buckled to the task ! She was 
determined to outdo her immortal predecessor. 
Not one of the three or four hundred words com- 
posing the scene but was turned and twisted in 
every possible way, to discover the truest and most 
effective rendering. Three such hours were worth 
months of study. 

Next, chance advanced me yet farther in this 
department of art. 

My tragedy of " Medea " having brought me into 
relations with Ristori, our common success soon 
made us friends. Accordingly, when M. Edouard 
Thierry, the skilful manager of the Theatre Fran- 
gais, on the occasion of a benefit for Racine's 
granddaughter, desired to use Ristori's name on 
the bill, he came to me to write something in French 
and in prose, to be translated into Italian verse for 
her. I set to work ; but my ideas flowed in poetic 
measure,. and, hastening to Mme. Ristori, I told her 
of Thierry's desire, which she eagerly seconded, and 
handed her my manuscript, saying, — 



FIRST STEPS. 13 



" Read that." 

" What ! French poetry ? " 

" Yes." 

"Aloud?" 

" Yes." 

"But why?" 

" Because that is what I intend you to recite." 

" On the stage ? " she cried, rising hastily. " On 
the stage ? French poetry ? Then you are my 
deadly enemy ! You want me to be hissed ! " 

" Wait a bit, my friend ! if you are hissed, I shall 
share your fate. So our interests are alike. Sit 
down, and read that to me." 

My quiet manner pacified her, although she shook 
her fist at me ; but she began, and read to. the end. 

"Well?" said she. 

" Well ! read it once more ; I 'm not quite sure 
about it yet." 

This done, I exclaimed, — 

" There } s sometliing in it ! we must set to 
work ! " 

Next day I took M. Regnier to hear her, unwill- 
ing to trust to my own impressions only. The day 
after, I took M. Samson ; and a week later, she re- 
cited the lines at the Theatre Frangais so delight- 
fully, that M. Samson, standing by, did not hesitate 



14 READING AS A FINE ART. 

to say to two young actresses, his pupils : " Young 
ladies, take a lesson ! " 

Was her Italian accent entirely gone ? By no 
means ; but talent is a kindly mantle, and her suc- 
cess was such that I attempted a French play for her, 
entitled, " Beatrice ; or, the Madonna of Art." This 
was a dangerous task, and I ran the greatest of all 
risks, — the risk of ridicule. But I knew her, and 
could count upon her. My play written, I joined 
her at Florence, where for one month I went over 
her part with her, line by line, word by word, sylla- 
ble by syllable. This was my method : There are 
two great distinctions between French and Italian 
pronunciation ; the first relating to the accent, the 
second to the sound itself of the vowels. The 
Italians have no e mute, they pronounce the French 
u ou ; the French diphthong eu is a dead letter to 
them. Moreover, the French a> o, and particu- 
larly the French e have medium sounds not marked 
by the accents, grave, acute, or circumflex. How 
explain to a foreigner that the e in cette, for in- 
stance, is neither as open as in tete, as clear as in 
colere, nor as sharp as in betail? 

The accent is yet more difficult of comprehension, 
for the Italian language is very rich in accent ; 
French, very poor. The French glide over the syl- 



FIRST STEPS. IS 



lables, merely emphasizing the last. The Italians, 
on the contrary, consider the accent — its due 
weight and place — among the chief beauties of their 
language. How was I to rid my spokeswoman of 
this feeling ? How accustom her, for instance, to 
run lightly over the first three syllables of S emir- 
amis y pausing only on the last, when the Italian 
Semiramide requires such stress on the ra ? 

After much thought, I had the part of Beatrice 
written out in a very big black hand, the lines 
widely spaced. Then I covered the pages with 
three sorts of signs in red ink : — ^ 

The horizontal lines were to blot out every e 
mute, a letter not pronounced in French, but which 
an Italian is always tempted to use. So I wrote : 
" Madame, faite-s moi \% plaisir." The perpendicular 
lines, placed over vowels whose medium sound is 
unknown in Italy, recalled to the artist's eye the 
special intonation which I had taught her ears and 
lips. The curved lines, starting from the first syl- 
lable and falling on the final one, said to her : " On, 
on, no stopping midway!" Her Italian instinct 
was constantly leading her to linger on one part or 
other of the word . . . but there was the immova- 
ble red line ! ... In this way, — thanks to this 
system of musical notation, thanks to weeks of 



l6 READING AS A FINE ART. 

work, but above all, thanks to the wonderful intel- 
lect and yet more wonderful power of will of this 
artist, — we succeeded, not in removing her accent 
(that I neither hoped nor attempted), but in leaving 
nothing but the flavor of the fruit; just enough 
to be striking without being strange, interesting 
without being ridiculous. 

Here, you see, I passed from the role of scholar 
to that of master, which was but another method of 
learning : for there is no better way to learn than 
to teach ; and every dramatist must needs turn 
elocution-teacher. Our mouth-pieces are often 
beginners, with nothing but a pretty face or sweet 
voice to recommend them : still, they are so exactly 
the person of our play that we would not exchange 
them, and needs must turn us to the task of breathing 
a soul into the fair statue. But the last and worst trial 
of all is the day when the author reads his piece to 
the managers and company, — a task as important 
as it is hard. The fate of his play is in his own 
hands, I might say in his voice. It is nothing more 
nor less than a first performance, without costume, 
scenery, or actors, — one person playing every part; 
and between reading and acting a play lies a vast 
difference. The actor has but one part to fill ; the 
reader, all. The actor is a soloist in the orchestra ; 



FIRST STEPS. 17 



the reader, the whole orchestra. I know no more 
difficult task* no more invigorating system of gym- 
nastics. And if to this, forty years of incessant 
collaboration with the most distinguished actors are 
added, it is plain that I have a right to call myself 
the pupil of the Theatre Frangais. 

Lastly, my third master was the College of 
France, where, in 1848 and 1866, I delivered a 
course of lectures on the " Moral History of 
Woman," and on " Parents and Children in the Nine- 
teenth Century." Brought for the first time into 
direct and constant communication with the public, 
I learned the rules imposed and the resources 
furnished by a large audience. Here I finished 
my education ; not that I was or am a master of 
the art of reading, — I have known too many true 
artists to arrogate that name to myself, — but I 
passed my examination, and was licensed to prac- 
tise. It then occurred to me to collect these scat- 
tered observations, and I hastened to confide my 
plan to a friend. 



1 8 READING AS A FINE ART. 



CHAPTER II. 

SHOULD WE READ AS WE TALK? 

In the spring of 1868, there lived not far from me 
a man of whom I might say, as Mme. de Sevigne 
said of Montaigne : " What a country neighbor he 
would make ! " M. St. Marc Girardin, — for of him 
I speak, — though of a sceptical turn, was the warm- 
est of friends, best of advisers, and most delight- 
ful of talkers. To him T submitted my idea, and, 
after hearing me attentively, he said : " My friend, 
you may execute brilliant variations and bravuras 
on your theme, which will call down hearty ap- 
plause ; but teach a lesson, never ! Reading is not 
an art ; it is the natural exercise of a natural 
power. There are people who read well, and people 
who read ill ; but the former's talent is a gift, a 
charm, a grace, what you will, but not an acquired 
art. It is not to be taught. The exercise of this 
natural power may call for certain useful sugges- 



SHOULD WE READ AS WE TALK? 19 

tions : Hygienic rules, such as, ' Do not talk or 
read to excess, any more than you would walk or 
eat to excess/ Common-sense rules, such as, ' Do 
not read too loud or too fast.' Rules of good taste, 
such as, ' Strive to understand, and to make your 
hearers understand, what you read/ But beyond 
these brief instructions, there are no direct rules 
for reading, such as constitute an art. The art of 
reading is summed up in a single sentence : ' Read 
as you talk.' " 

. I had great faith in M. Girardin's taste, and 
knew his perfect sincerity ; but here I had my 
own convictions, and perceived the feeling under- 
lying his words, perhaps unconsciously to him- 
self : " I, St. Marc Girardin, read very well, and 
I never was taught ; therefore, no one requires 
teaching." 

Accordingly, I replied : " My dear friend, there is 
a grain of truth in what you say, as there always 
is in the words of a clever man of the world, who 
talks of a subject which he has not studied." 

This rather provoked him ; but. I continued 
calmly : " Undoubtedly, much depends in reading 
upon natural talent. It is not like many other 
arts and trades, absolutely forbidden to those who 
have not served an apprenticeship. Some men 



20 READING AS A FINE ART. 

read gracefully and pleasantly without study. You 
are an example of this, for you read effectively ; 
you are always applauded : but you do not 
read — excuse my frankness — you do not read 
weir 

Upon this he smiled slyly, and said : " What ! 
I don't read well?" 

" No ! and the proof of it is that, if any one else 
read as you do, he would read very badly." 

" Explain yourself," he exclaimed, laughing, 

" Nothing easier. I have heard you read extracts 
from Lamartine, Corneille, and Victor Hugo, in your 
lectures at the Sorbonne ; and I 've heard you read 
your own essays at the Academy. The difference 
was immense." 

" In what way ? " 

"The verses of the great masters, read by 
you, were much applauded. Why ? Because you 
brought all your intellect and superior mind to 
bear on the reading ; because you have a ringing 
voice and an air of conviction, — all personal qual- 
ities which hide your faults." 

"Well, what are my faults, if you please ? " 

" Your voice has certain tones which offend by 
their very excess. Your delivery is often some- 
what declamatory and bombastic, — a failing not 



SHOULD WE READ AS WE TALK ? 21 

displeasing to your youthful listeners. But change 
the audience, and give your manner to some one 
without your intellect and authority, and he would 
not please, just because he imitated you too well. 
Now nothing is good which may not safely 
be copied. Therefore, you read with talent, but 
not as one knowing how to read — even your own 
addresses, which no one else could read as well as 
you do, for there your faults become good points, 
being a part of your personality. Let me illustrate 
my meaning. Jules Sandeau wrote a charming 
speech in answer to Camille Doucet, which 
he begged me to read for him. l Heaven forbid!' 
said I. 

" Why ? You would read it much better than I." 
" Yes ! but I should not read it so well. Your 
speech is a part of yourself. To be sure, I should 
not make the same mistakes that you would. I 
should not drop my last syllables, I should make 
more of the witticisms ; but I should not have your 
easy attitude, your indolent voice, your indifferent 
manner, — all which are charming in you, because 
natural, but which would be disagreeable in me, 
because acquired. Your speech is fat and fair; I 
should read it like a thin, dark-haired man : read it 
yourself." 



22 READING AS A FINE ART. 

" He took my advice, and his success proved me 
right. But had he read another man's production 
thus, it would have been sheer treason." 

" A pretty story," said St. Marc Girardin, " but 
I don't see what it leads us to. I understand your 
tale, but don't see what moral you want to draw 
from it." 

"Another example may help you. M. Viennet 
had great fame as a reader, — well deserved when 
he read his own verses. His hoarse voice, queer 
gestures, little tuft of hair standing erect like a 
cock's comb, his jolly intonation, were the exact 
picture of his style of talent, vivid and somewhat 
vulgar as it was ; add to this, that he had an 
immense admiration for every thing that was his 
own, which gave his delivery of his own verses a 
spirit and fire that warmed his audience. I was 
once asked to read a poem by M. Viennet at the 
Academy, and refused, saying that neither the 
piece nor myself could succeed, as I lacked the 
chief element of M. Viennet's success, — a pro- 
found conviction that what I read was a master- 
piece of art ! " 

This harmless little epigram amused St. Marc 
Girardin, and he cried gayly : " The conclusion ! the 
conclusion ! What do you conclude from that ? " 



SHOULD WE READ AS WE TALK? 23 

" I conclude that we should never say a writer 
reads well because he is applauded for reading his 
own writings, his very faults often helping his 
success. I conclude that we must except certain 
rare spirits, certain exceptional natures like your 
own, who can dispense with rules, they evade them 
so gracefully ! Art is not for you ; you need it 
not ! But I also conclude that the majority of 
mankind require to be taught to read, and that this 
knowledge, which may be useful even to superior 
beings, — for one may have more science without 
having less talent, — is indispensable to others.'' 

" But what does this science consist of ? How 
do you define it ?" 

" The art of speaking and reading correctly." 

" Correctness presupposes rules. What are these 
rules ? " 

"They are of two sorts, material and intellectual ; 
for the art of reading depends at the same time 
upon the exercise of a physical organ, the voice, 
and of a spiritual organ, the intellect. Shall we 
take up the voice first ?*' 

" With all my heart," said St. Marc Girardin. 

" Then I will write down the results of my obser- 
vation ; for in such a matter we must be exact." 

But, alas ! The war broke out ; I wrote nothing, 



24 READING AS A FINE ART, 

until three months ago, when, at the request of 
M. Bersot, — a man who does honor to the cause of 
public education, — I made this epitome of my ex- 
perience for the pupils of the High and Normal 
School. 



THE VOICE. 25 



CHAPTER III. 

TECHNICAL PART OF THE ART OF READING. 

THE VOICE. 

The technical part of the art of reading is devoted 
to two objects, — the voice and the pronunciation; 
sounds and words. 

The vocal apparatus resembles the optic and 
auric apparatus, differing from them in one essen- 
tial point ; i. e. y sight and hearing are involuntary. 
No sooner are our eyes open and there is light, or 
our ears open and there is a noise, than we see and 
hear, whether we wish to do so or not. The voice 
on the contrary is under the control of the will ; 
man speaks only when he chooses. 

There is a second difference : we cannot see or 
hear more or less at pleasure, except by interposing 
some veil or obstacle between the external world 
and ourselves. But not so with the voice ; we 
speak fast or slow, loud or low ; we regulate the 
measure of vocal action as well as the action itself. 



26 READING AS A FINE ART. 

Hence, the natural inference is that we cannot 
be taught to hear or see (I refer to mere material 
action), and that consequently there is no art of 
seeing or hearing ; while we may learn to talk, lan- 
guage being susceptible to changes resulting from 
the will. 

One word will suffice to explain this difference. 

The vocal apparatus is not only an apparatus, it 
is an instrument, like a piano. Now what is the 
characteristic feature of the piano ? The key-board 
is composed of from six and a half to seven octaves, 
divided into three classes of notes, — upper, lower, 
and middle, — whose tones correspond to strings of 
various sizes. The voice has its key-board also, 
divided into two octaves instead of seven, but hav- 
ing its three species of notes like the piano, and its 
chords of differing size ; and we can never play 
upon the voice properly without study, any more 
than we can on the piano. 

Let me go even farther. On leaving the hands 
of a good maker, the piano is a complete and per- 
fect instrument, the sound issuing from it as mu- 
sical as it is harmonious, when called forth by an 
artist's fingers. But the little piano given us at 
birth seldom reaches such perfection. There are 
missing chords, squeaky keys, false notes ; so that 



THE VOICE. 27 



before we can become good pianists we must turn 
makers and tuners, and set our instruments in 
order. 

The three varieties of voice, known as high, low, 
and medium, are all indispensable to artistic read- 
ing ; but they should be very differently used, their 
strength being quite unequal. The medium voice 
is the strongest, most flexible, and natural of the 
three ; indeed, the famous actor Mole once said, 
" Without the middle register, no reputation. ,, In 
fact, the medium voice, being the ordinary one, is 
used to express all the truest and most natural 
emotions : the lower notes often have, great power, 
the upper notes great brilliancy ; but they should 
never be used unseasonably. I might compare 
the upper notes to the cavalry in an army, to be 
reserved for sudden, bold attacks, triumphant 
charges ; the lower notes, like the artillery, are used 
for feats of strength ; but the true dependence of 
the army, the element on which the tactician 
chiefly relies, is the infantry, — the medium tones. 
The first rule in the art of reading establishes the 
superior value of the middle register. The upper 
tones are much more fragile, are liable to wear out, 
or become shrill and discordant if too much used. 
Sometimes this abuse of the upper notes affects 



28 READING AS A FINE ART. . 

the very judgment of a speaker. M. Berryer once 
told me how he lost an excellent case by uncon- 
sciously beginning his plea on too high a key. 
Fatigue soon spread from his larynx to his head, 
his thoughts became involved, and he lost a part 
of his brain power, simply because it never occurred 
to him to descend from the lofty perch to which 
his voice had climbed at the outset. 

Nor is abuse of the lower notes less serious ; 
it produces monotony and a certain dulness and 
deadness of quality. Talma, when young, was 
much given to this failing. His voice, though pow- 
erful and eloquent, was rather sombre ; and it was 
only by dint of hard study that he raised it from 
the depths where it naturally lingered. Apropos of 
this, let me relate an anecdote of my father, who, 
as I said before, was a fine reader, — much of his 
success at the College of France, where, he taught, 
depending on this talent. He often introduced 
quotations from the great poets of France in his 
lectures, which won universal applause. This ap- 
plause, to which he was naturally susceptible, gained 
him many envious foes, and at last a criticism ap- 
peared, as follows : " Yesterday, M. Legouve read 
two scenes from Racine in his sepulchral voice. ,, 
This fell under the notice of one of his friends, M. 



THE VOICE. 29 



Parseval Grandmaison, who immediately said : 
" Dear me, Legouve must be very much vexed at 
this ; I '11 go to see him." He found my father on 
the sofa in a most melancholy mood. 

" Oh ! it 's you, is it, my dear Parseval ? " 

" Yes. Are you ill, Legouve ? You look sad." 

" No ! there 's nothing the matter ; a slight sore 
throat. Tell me, Parseval, what do you think of 
my voice ?" 

" Why, I think it 's beautiful, my boy." 

" Yes, yes ; but what do you consider its char- 
acter ? Do you call it a brilliant voice ? " 

" Oh, no ! no ! not brilliant ! I should rather 
call it sonorous ; yes, that's it, sonorous." 

" Perhaps it would be better to call it a grave 
voice ? " 

" Grave be it ! but not melancholy ! No ! no ! 
not melancholy! And yet there is a certain — " 

" But you don't call it cavernous ? " 

"Not at all! Still — " 

" Oh ! I see," cried my father, " that you agree 
with that wretched critic, who calls my voice sepul- 
chral ! " 

The moral of this story is, that from that day 
forth my father strove to give his lower notes a 
rest, and to blend them better with the upper and 



30 READING AS A FINE ART. 

medium tones ; and thus he acquired that variety of 
sound which is at once charming to the listener, 
and easy for the reader. 

But this intermixture of tone is not the only 
vocal exercise. The voice must be cultivated in 
various ways. Cultivation strengthens a weak 
voice, makes a stiff one flexible, a harsh one soft, 
and in fact acts upon the speaking voice as musical 
exercises on the singing voice. We sometimes 
hear that great artists — M. Duprez, for instance — 
made their own voices. The expression is incorrect. 
No one can make a voice who has not one to start 
with, and this is proved by the fact that the voice is 
perishable. No voice would ever be lost, could it be 
made at will ; but it may be changed ; it may gain 
body, brilliancy, and expression, not only from a 
series of gymnastics adapted to strengthen the 
whole organ, but from a certain method of attack- 
ing the note. Additional notes may also be gained 
by study. On one occasion, the famous Malibran, 
when singing the rondo from " Somnambula," fin- 
ished her cadenza with a trill on d in alt, running up 
from low d, thus embracing three octaves. These 
three octaves were no natural gift, but the result 
of long and patient labor. After the concert, some 
one expressed his admiration of her d in alt, to which 



THE VOICE. 31 



she replied: "Well, I 've worked hard enough for 
it. I 've been chasing it for a month. I pursued 
it everywhere, — when I was dressing, when I was 
doing my hair ; and at last I found it in the toe of 
a shoe that I was putting on ! " Thus we see that 
art will not only aid us in governing, but also in 
extending our kingdom. 



32 READING AS A FINE ART. 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE ART OF BREATHING. 



The second great lesson in learning to read is 
how to breathe. Many may think that if there be 
a natural and instinctive action upon earth with 
which art has nothing to do, it is the act of taking 
breath. To breathe is to live, and we breathe un- 
consciously as we live ; and yet no one can read 
well without breathing properly, and no one can 
breathe properly without study : indeed, it is one 
of the rarest accomplishments in a reader. Let me 
explain myself. When we breathe in every-day 
life, the air enters and leaves the lungs like a strearn, 
flowing continuously, insensibly, and equably. But 
this gentle passage of the air through the throat 
does not suffice to set the vocal chords in vibration, 
and they are mute like the keys of an untouched 
piano : the air must strike them a sharp blow 
before they will resound, as the fingers strike the 



THE ART OF BREATHING. 33 

keys of the piano. Some of my readers may have 
heard an yEolian harp : it stood in a doorway or 
window ; if there was no air it was silent ; but 
let the air be condensed into wind, and the strings 
wake to music. A similar phenomenon occurs 
every time that we' speak. We condense and com- 
press the air contained in the lungs, force it into 
the throat, and this shock produces speech. But 
this requires more air than the ordinary act of 
breathing, and we can no longer use the simile of 
a flowing stream : we must compare the breath to 
water gushing from a pump, spurting out faster 
and faster at every stroke of the handle. The 
usual conditions of breathing are now set aside. 
The scant supply of air stored away for ordinary 
breath-taking is insufficient for the energetic act 
of speech : a balance must be struck between what 
we have and what we should have. We must go 
to headquarters, to the atmosphere itself, and de- 
mand the necessary amount of air. This demand 
is called inhalation ; the act of breathing being 
divided into two parts, — inhalation and expiration. 
To inhale is to gain a supply for future need ; to 
exhale, to expend that provision. 

Each of these is an act in itself. The act of in- 
halation consists in drawing breath from the very 

3 



34 READING AS A FINE ART. 

base of the lungs, from the diaphragm ; for if we 
breathe from the upper part of the lungs only, we 
obtain too small a supply of air, which is soon ex- 
hausted, and if we have a lengthy passage to read 
we are in the condition of a traveller in the des- 
ert who starts with his water-skins but half full, — 
breath fails us ; we are obliged to pause and take 
in a fresh stock, which is fatiguing both to our- 
selves and to others, as we shall presently see. 
The first duty of the reader, who is to fill a long 
programme, is to take a deep breath at the start, 
to be sure that his lungs are well furnished. Then 
comes the second and most difficult part, — expen- 
diture of this breath. A bad reader does not take 
breath often enough, and spends it too freely ; he 
throws this precious treasure out of the window, as 
it were, squandering it as a spendthrift his gold. 
The result is that the speaker, reader, actor, or 
singer, as the case may be, is continually at the 
pump, giving sudden gasps, which are most dis- 
agreeable to his audience. An accomplished singer 
of my acquaintance had this failing ; he was con- 
stantly taking breath, and the bellows-like sound 
mingled with his singing was unendurable. He 
finally perceived and corrected his mistake, proving 
that it may be cured. M. Stockhausen, an eminent 



THE ART OF BREATHING. 35 

artist, astonished all the Swiss guides by never 
losing breath in climbing the steepest mountains. 
" My secret is a simple one," said he ; " I under- 
stand the art of breathing." The great singer, 
Rubini, was a thorough master of the art. No one 
ever heard him breathe. The following anecdote 
of Talma may serve to explain this seeming 
mystery. 

While a young man, Talma played Diderot's 
" Pere de Famille," and on reaching the famous 
speech, " Fifteen hundred pounds a year and my 
Sophy," he burst out, stormed, raged, and finally 
hurrying behind the scenes in a state of complete ex- 
haustion, sank against the wall, panting like an ox. 

" Fool ! " said Mole, who was standing by, " and 
you pretend to play tragedy ! Come to me to- 
morrow, and I '11 teach you how to be impassioned 
without getting out of breath." 

Talma went ; but whether the master lacked 
patience or the pupil docility, the lesson did him 
little good. At that time there was an actor at the 
theatre named Dorival ; thin, ugly, and weak-voiced, 
he was nevertheless quite successful as a tragedian. 
" How does that fellow manage ? " thought Talma. 
" I am ten times as strong, and yet I fatigue myself 
ten times more. I must ask him his secret." 



36 READING AS A FINE ART. 

Dorival baffled his querist by this bitter-sweet 
reply, which has a smack of envy in it : " Oh ! you 
are so successful, M. Talma, that you need no 
lessons." 

" I '11 make you give me one, though/' muttered 
Talma; and the next time that Dorival played 
Chatillon in " Zaire," the young man hid himself — 
guess where ! in the prompter's box, where he 
could hear and see without being seen. There he 
watched and studied to such good purpose, that, 
after the great speech in the second act, he left his 
post, exclaiming, " I've got it! I've hit it /" He 
saw that Dorival's whole art lay in his genius for 
breathing, which led him always to take breath 
before his lungs were quite empty ; and, to conceal 
this repeated inhalation from the public, he strove 
to place it before a, e, or o, — that is, at places 
where, his mouth being already open, he could 
breathe lightly and imperceptibly. 

We see what an immense part the breath has to 
play in elocutionary art ; its rules are the only 
inviolable ones. An actor launched on a stormy 
passage, carried away by passion, may forget the 
laws of punctuation, confound commas and periods, 
and hasten headlong to the conclusion of his phrase; 
but he must always be master of his breath, even 



THE ART OF BREATHING. 37 

when he seems to lose it ; an accomplished actor 
is never out of breath except in appearance and 
for effect. 

Talma reduced these rules to a striking maxim : 
" The artist who tires himself is no genius. ,, 

I hear my reader's objection : " This art may be 
very useful to an actor ; but we are talking of read- 
ing, not the theatre." Yes, but the reader needs 
it yet more than the actor ; for, long and important 
as the latter' s part may be, he always has times of 
forced rest. He is silent when others speak ; and 
his very gestures, added to his words, help to make 
them true and touching. But the reader often goes 
on for an hour without pause, the immobility of his 
body obliging him to draw all his power from his 
will alone. Consider, therefore, whether it is use- 
less for him to understand the management of that 
precious breath which alone can carry him tri- 
umphantly and untired to the end. 

Here is a curious example of the science of econ- 
omy applied to the breath. Take a lighted candle, 
stand in front of it, and sing a: the light will 
scarcely flicker ; but, instead of a single tone, sing 
a scale, and you will see the candle quiver at every 
note. The singer, Delle Sedie, runs up and down 
the scale before a flame, and it never wavers. This 



38 READING AS A FINE ART. 

is because he permits only the exact amount of 
breath to escape which is requisite to force the 
sound straight forward ; and the air, being thus 
occupied in the emission of the note, loses its 
quality of wind, and is reduced to its quality of 
sound. You or I, on the contrary, waste a great 
deal of breath, and send the sound right and left, 
as well as forward. From this elocutionary rule 
we may deduce a moral lesson : In every act of 
life, spend no more than the exact amount of energy 
required! Every mental emotion is a jewel. Let 
us hoard them up for fitting use. How many peo- 
ple waste, in impatience and petty strife, the treas- 
ure of anger, so sacred when it becomes righteous 
wrath ! 

Now, for a few final and most necessary sugges- 
tions to readers. To breathe easily, choose a high 
seat. Buried in an easy-chair, it is impossible to 
breathe from the base of the lungs. I would also 
say, Be careful to sit erect. No one who stoops 
can breathe otherwise than ill. Lastly, if possible, 
have a support for your back. Often, when reading 
in public, I have checked incipient vocal and cere- 
bral fatigue simply by leaning well back in my 
chair. The moment that equilibrium was restored, 
I breathed freely, and my head grew clear. 



PRONUNCIA TION. 39 



CHAPTER V. 



PRONUNCIATION. 



We now pass from the world of sounds to the 
world of words ; we stopped at vowels, and will now 
add to them consonants, which are the true frame- 
work of the word : a word may be reconstructed 
from its consonants as Cuvier reconstructed an 
unknown animal from its bones. The union of 
vowels and consonants constitutes pronunciation, 
for no consonant can be pronounced without the 
addition of a vowel ; and the vowel by itself forms 
a sound which may be uttered, but not a distinct 
word. Clear speech, correct diction, the very life 
of language, depend upon good pronunciation ; so 
that it is most important to study and attain it. 
All who read in public should strive to give each 
vowel its appropriate accent and emphasis, for 
otherwise the effect of the best sentence ever 
penned may be lost. 



40 READING AS A FINE ART. 

In regard to consonants, the science of pronun- 
ciation is the science of articulation, the most diffi- 
cult and most useful art imaginable. Few people 
are born with perfect articulation ; in some it is 
harsh, in others lisping, in others thick and indis- 
tinct. Practice, constant and systematic practice, 
is the only remedy for these defects. Let me 
give you a simple but excellent exercise, which 
every one can try, and which is the result of obser- 
vation. Suppose that you have a weighty secret 
to confide to a friend, but you are afraid of being 
overheard, as the door is open into the next room, 
where people are sitting. Do you go close up to 
your friend and whisper in his ear ? No ; you 
dare not, lest you be surprised in that suspicious 
attitude. What then will you do ? Let me quote 
the words of that king of teachers, Regnier. You 
take your stand directly opposite your friend, and 
as softly as possible, speaking in an undertone, you 
trust to distinctness of articulation to convey the 
words to his eye as well as to his ear, for he watches 
as well as listens to you. Articulation thus does 
double duty ; it plays the part of sound itself, and 
is accordingly obliged to sketch out the words ac- 
curately, and to emphasize each syllable, that it may 
penetrate the mind of the hearer. This is an infal- 



PRO NUNC I A TION 4 1 

lible cure for faulty or harsh enunciation. Practise 
this exercise for a few months, and your vocal gym- 
nastics will make the articulatory muscles so strong 
and supple that they will respond to every turn of 
thought. Moreover, this method of M. Regnier 
has been adopted for teaching deaf mutes to speak. 
The teacher sketches the words on his lips ; no 
sound, no voice ! nothing but articulation : the deaf 
man reads from his master s lips ! 

Articulation plays an immense part in the do- 
main of reading. Articulation, and articulation 
alone, gives clearness, energy, passion, and force. 
Such is its power that it can even overcome 
deficiency of voice in the presence of a large au- 
dience. There have been actors of the foremost 
rank, who had scarcely any voice. Potier had no 
voice. Monvel, the famous Monvel, not only had 
no voice, he had no teeth ! And yet no one ever 
lost a word that fell from his lips ; and never 
was there a more delightful, more moving artist 
than he, thanks to his perfect articulation. The 
best reader I ever knew was M. Andrieux, whose 
voice was not only weak, but worn, hoarse, and 
croaking. Yet his perfect enunciation triumphed 
over all these defects. 

Sometimes a lucky hoarseness teaches an actor 



42 READING AS A FINE ART, 

the varied resources of articulation. M. Bouffe was 
once playing one of his great parts, — Father Gran- 
det in "The Miser's Daughter," — -and on reaching 
the most affecting scene in the play, where the old 
miser finds that he has been robbed, the actor 
began to shriek and rant as usual ; but in a few 
moments the sound died on his lips, and he was 
compelled to finish in a low voice ! The result was 
that he was a thousand times more natural and 
more touching, because he was forced to make up 
for lack of sound by distinct articulation. No one 
can speak without a voice ; but the voice alone is 
so far from being enough for oratory, that there are 
readers, speakers, and actors, whose very wealth of 
voice is an embarrassment to them. They cannot 
enunciate ; sound swallows up their words, vowels 
devour consonants, and they talk and read so loud, 
make so much noise about it, that no one can hear 
them. Sometimes, too, fashion forbids distinct 
articulation, and it becomes pedantic. An old fre- 
quenter of the Theatre-Frangais tells me that during 
the last sixty years fashionable pronunciation has 
been changed three times. To serious-minded 
men, however, there is but one true fashion, namely, 
to pronounce distinctly enough to be understood, 
but not so much so as to be remarked. 



STUTTERING. 43 



CHAPTER VI. 



STUTTERING. 



Stuttering is an especial evil, obstinate of cure, 
and appertaining to both mind and body. When 
due solely to physical malformation, it naturally 
comes within the province of medicine ; when result- 
ing from intellectual causes, it enters into the field 
of the elocutionist. The tongue often stammers, 
and stammers habitually, because the mind stam- 
mers ; because the character stammers ; because 
the person is never quite sure of what he wants to 
do or say ; because he is timid, choleric, or hasty. 
Impatience, timidity, and lack of mental precision 
are the chief causes of that species of stuttering 
which is susceptible of cure : let the victim accus- 
tom himself to speak slowly, to be master of himself 
and his ideas, and he will cease to stammer. A 
distinguished singer of my acquaintance stammers 
slightly when he talks, but never when he sings. 
Why is this ? Because, when he sings, he is sure 



44 READING AS A FINE ART. 

of his ground ; exercise, practice, and habit have 
made him master of his voice and diction so soon 
as he joins words to music ; but let him speak, and 
his natural timidity makes his tongue hesitating 
and uncertain. The artist vanishes, the man re- 
mains, and the stammerer reappears. 

Physical stuttering, dependent on the organs of 
speech only, can be cured by medical aid alone. 

It generally affects all letters impartially, though 
sometimes a stutterer has special enemies in the 
alphabet ; that is to say, there are certain letters 
before which he always hesitates, as a horse pauses 
before certain obstacles. I can cite a curious fact 
illustrative of this point. Twenty years ago, M. 
Scribe and I wrote a play called " Fairy Fingers/' 
in which there was one part written for a stam- 
merer. The character was meant to be funny, but 
not ridiculous ; and I even desired it to be touching. 
M. Got gladly accepted the part ; but, when he came 
to study it, found himself much puzzled to know 
how to make it interesting and affecting without 
ceasing to be funny. At last, he came running in 
to rehearsal with a radiant face. He hurried up 
to me, exclaiming : " I Ve hit the secret ! I shall 
stutter only over two consonants, / and d. Thanks 
to this plan, suggested by my recent study of stam- 



STUTTERING. 45 



mering, I shall prevent the part from being mo- 
notonous, rid myself of the insufferable bore of 
stuttering all the time, and only keep just enough 
of the trick to be interesting and piquant. But," 
he added, merrily, " it will make more work for you, 
my dear author ; you will have to add a few more 
p's and d's to my part. I'll mark the places where 
I want them." This was done, and his success was 
fully equal to his expectations. 

I doubt if organic stammering be curable. Phy- 
sicians have made many attempts ; I never saw a 
complete success. Temporary alleviation, or cessa- 
tion, apparent cures? — yes! but a real cure? — 
never ! Certain specialists advertise the number 
of their marvellous cures, but a scene which I once 
witnessed makes me rather incredulous in regard 
to reformed stutterers. I once went to a ball given 
by a doctor famed for this very specialty, who has 
done noble service for the art of speech by his 
theoretical labors. 

" Sir," said I to a gentleman standing by, " will 
you be my vis-a-vis in the next dance ? " 

" Cer-cer-certainly." 

" Oh ! he stutters," thought I. 

Refreshments were soon passed, and I said to 
another young man, " Please hand me an ice." 



46 READING AS A FINE ART. 

" Wi-wi-wi-th pl-pl-easure." 

" Ah ! he stammers, too ! " 

I turned and saw an old school-friend, who ex- 
claimed : " Hullo ! is it you ? Don't you re-re-re- 
remember how I used to st-st-st-stutter at school ? " 

" Yes. ,, 

"Well, I came to M. Co-Co-Co-lombat [our 
host], and from that time forth I've been entirely 
cur-cur-cur-ed! " 

It now remains for us to consider the subject of 
punctuation, if we would complete our survey of 
reading as a material art. 



P UNCTUA TION. 47 



CHAPTER VII. 



PUNCTUATION 



We punctuate with words as we punctuate with 
the pen. 

A self-satisfied young man once went to M. 
Samson for lessons. Samson inquired, " You wish 
to take reading-lessons ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Are you in the habit of reading aloud ? " 

" Yes, sir ; I have recited a great many scenes 
from Corneille and Moliere." 

" In public ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Successfully ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

"Please read the fable of 'The Oak and the 
Reed,' from this volume of La Fontaine." 

The scholar began: "'The Oak one day, said to 
the Reed — ' " 



48 READING AS A FINE ART. 

"That will do! Sir, you don't know how to 
read ! " 

" Certainly not, sir," replied the scholar, somewhat 
annoyed ; " if I did, I should not come to you for 
advice. But I don't see how in a single line — " 

" Please read it again." 

He repeated : " ' The Oak one day, said to the 
Reed — ' " 

" I said you didn't know how to read." 

"But" — 

"But," said Samson, calmly, "do we ever join 
adverbs to substantives, instead of to verbs ? Was 
there ever an oak named ' One Day ' ? No ; very 
well, then why do you read, i The Oak one day, 
said to the Reed ' ? Say, * The Oak (comma), one 
day said to the Reed.' " 

" That 's true ! " cried the astonished youth. 

" So true," replied his master, with the same 
quiet manner, "that I have just taught you one of 
the most important branches of the art of reading 
aloud, — the art of punctuation." 

"What, sir, do people punctuate in reading?" 

" Why, of course they do ! Such and such a 
pause denotes a period ; such and such a half-pause, 
a comma ; such and such an accent, a question- 
mark : and much of the clearness and interest of 



P UNCTUA TION. 49 

your story depends on this skilful distribution of 
periods and commas, which the reader indicates 
without mentioning, and the listener hears, although 
they are not expressly named. " 

Written punctuation varying in every age, spoken 
punctuation must also vary. Suppose that a tragic 
poet of our day should use Corneille's phrase, " Let 
him die ! " 1 he would put one, if not two, big ex- 
clamation-points after it. Corneille simply put a 
comma, which speaks loudly. It shows that to 
Corneille this line was no piece of noisy oratory, 
but an involuntary cry, instantly amended by the 
next line, which Voltaire thought weak because he 
could not feel its exquisite delicacy. The Roman 
exclaims, " Let him die ! " But the father adds, 
" Or let proud despair relieve him ! " 

Ellipses, or stars (***), are a modern invention. 
There is not a solitary example of them in the liter- 
ature of either the seventeenth or eighteenth century. 
They are much used in dramatic works, Scribe being 
one of their chief inventors. They suit the feverish, 
hurried action of his plays, being the punctuation 

1 From "Horace" (The Horatii). This line is world-re- 
nowned. Voltaire says that " there is nothing comparable to it in 
the literature of antiquity ; and that the whole audience was so car- 
ried away by it on its first hearing as to drown the weak line fol- 
lowing it in storms of applause." 

4 



SO READING AS A FINE ART. 

of a man in great haste, carried along by the rush 
of events, — the punctuation of a man who thinks 
that his meaning will be taken for granted. It is 
exceedingly hard to punctuate in this style, in 
reading. 

It is now evident that I was right when I said 
that reading was an art, and had its special rules ; 
for we have laid down rules for the production of 
the voice, for breathing, for pronunciation, artic- 
ulation, and punctuation, — that is, for every thing 
relating" to the material part of the art of reading. 
We will now advance to its intellectual side. 



READING MADE ELOQUENT IN PROSE 
AND POETRY. 



o>«<o» 



PART SECOND. 



CHAPTER I. 



READERS AND SPEAKERS. 



Let us suppose a scholar who is mechanically 
perfect. Practice has made his voice even, agree- 
able, and flexible. He thoroughly understands the 
art of blending his medium, upper, and lower tones. 
He breathes imperceptibly. He pronounces dis- 
tinctly. His articulation is sharp and clear. All 
faults in his pronunciation, — if he had any, — have 
been remedied. He punctuates as he reads. His 
delivery is neither hurried, jerky, nor drawling; and, 
what is very rare, he never drops his final syllables, 
so that every phrase is round and firm. 

Is he a finished reader ? No ; he is only a 
correct reader. He can, without tiring himself or 



52 READING AS A FINE ART. 

his hearers, read a political report, a scientific 
speech, a financial statement, or a legal document. 
All this is very well; reading is thus brought to 
bear upon almost all the liberal professions, so that 
it may rightly be ranked under the head of useful 
knowledge. 

But it does not yet deserve the noble name of 
art. To be worthy of that, it must extend to works 
of art ; must become the interpreter of the master- 
pieces of genius : only, in that case, correctness will 
not suffice, — talent is also requisite. 

All readers cannot become talented readers, 
neither can all learn with the same ease and in the 
same space of time ; but all who are in any way 
gifted, may learn in proportion to their intellect 
and natural endowments. Select spirits, blessed 
with exceptional powers, will of course reap double 
harvest. Genius is not to be bought or taught, 
though talent may be acquired. When genius is 
added to talent, we call it Talma. Of what does 
this talent consist ; upon what rules does it depend ? 

St. Marc Girardin, we remember, summed them 
up in the one axiom, "We should read as we 
speak." But this opinion, which has passed into 
a principle with many clever men, is subject to 
more than one restriction. 



READERS AND SPEAKERS. 53 

_« : 

Read as we talk ? So be it ! — but on condition 
that we talk well. Now almost every one talks very 
ill. Add to this the fact that conversation admits, 
even requires, a certain amount of careless pro- 
nunciation, freedom of diction, and voluntary inac- 
curacy, which are graceful in their place, but which 
would certainly be a great defect in reading. To 
talk as we read would be pedantic; to read as 
we talk would often be vulgar. 

An amateur who prided himself on his elegant 
elocution once went to the famous tragedian Lafon 
for lessons, less desirous of advice than of flattery 
from so high an authority. Lafon corrected his 
pronunciation frequently and severely, upon which 
the offended pupil exclaimed : " But, sir, I pro- 
nounce just as all fashionable people do." 

" Fashion is fashion," replied Lafon, coldly, " but 
art is art ; reading is reading, and its rules are not 
those of conversation." 

The reproof was excellent ; and the conclusion is 
that there undoubtedly is a truth of inflection, grace 
of diction, and naturalness in conversation which 
may be profitably employed in reading aloud ; but 
that we must never borrow any but its good points, 
if we would be true to nature, and correct. 

Nor is this all. People, by a strange confusion 



54 READING AS A FINE ART, 

of terms, use indifferently and in the same sense 
the two words speak and talk. No two words are 
more unlike in meaning. There are people who, 
from the standpoint of good diction, talk very well 
and speak quite as ill. If you wish to prove this fact, 
go into any court-house ; address some lawyer of 
your acquaintance,, and chat with him for a moment. 
His delivery will be natural and simple. Follow 
him into the court-room and listen to his plea. He 
is another man ; all his merits disappear : he was 
natural, he is now bombastic ; he talked in tune, he 
speaks out of tune, — for we can speak as well as 
sing out of tune. Many lawyers seem as if they 
were playing the part of L'Intime in the " Plaid- 
eurs;" 1 Regnier, Got, and Coquelin imitate them 
so perfectly, that they seem rather to imitate 
Coquelin, Got, and Regnier. Everybody knows 
the lawyer whom Got copies ; Coquelin imitates 
three ; and as for Regnier, his model was a royal 
solicitor, who brought such poetic sweetness of 
pronunciation and such grace of delivery to bear 
upon his criminal cases, as to remind one of Mile. 
Mars in her palmy days, and to be perfectly 
irresistible. 

We must not be too hard on lawyers ; preachers 

1 Comedy by Racine. 



READERS AND SPEAKERS. 55 

are quite as bad. I have heard any number of 
preachers, and never but one who spoke thoroughly 
well. I will not name him, lest I quarrel with the 
rest. It is plain, that if we are to learn to read 
we should also learn to speak; and the curious 
point is that there is but one true way to learn to 
speak, and that is to learn to read. Let me explain 
my meaning. 

A general mounts his horse before going into 
battle. His first requisite, therefore, is a knowl- 
edge of horsemanship. Obliged to move rapidly 
from one point to another, to see that his orders 
are properly executed, his animal should be the 
docile instrument of his will, which he can govern 
almost unconsciously : if obliged to pay attention 
to his steed, his mind cannot be upon his plan of 
action. A general, therefore, requires two in- 
structors, — a warrior, and a riding-master. 

Such is precisely the case with the speaker : his 
voice is his horse, his weapon of warfare ; if he 
would not have it betray him in action, previous 
and direct practice must teach him the art of using 
it. We cannot learn to think and to speak at one 
and the same time. Vocal exercises and the study 
of delivery are all the more beneficial that they 
lead us to consider the ideas of others, and our own 
mind is free to examine them carefully. 



$6 READING AS A FINE ART. 

I was once intimate with a young deputy, full of 
talent and learning, who deemed his deputyship 
merely a stepping-stone to the ministry. On one 
occasion, he was to deliver an address before the 
ministers and House of Deputies, and begged me 
to come and hear him. His speech over, he hur- 
ried towards me, anxious to learn my opinion. 

" Well, old fellow/' said I, " this speech will never 
get you into the Cabinet." 

"Why not?" 

" Because you absolutely don't know how to 
speak." 

" Don't know how to speak ! " said he, some- 
what hurt and offended ; " and yet I thought my 
speech — " 

" Oh, your speech was in excellent taste, — fair 
and sensible, even witty ; but what avails all that, 
if no one could hear you ? " 

" Not hear me ! But I began so loud — " 

" That you may say you shrieked ; accordingly, 
you were hoarse in fifteen minutes." 

"That's true." 

"Wait; I haven't finished yet. Having spoken 
too loud, you spoke too fast." 

" Oh ! too fast ! " he exclaimed, deprecatingly ; 
" perhaps I did at the end, because I wanted to cut 
it short." 



READERS AND SPEAKERS. S7 

"Exactly; and you did the very opposite — you 
spun it out. Nothing, on the stage, makes a scene 
seem so long as to reel it off too fast. An audience 
is very cunning, and guesses by your very haste 
that you think the thing drags. Unwarned, the 
listener might not notice it ; you draw his attention 
to the fact, and he loses patience. ,, 

"True again !" cried my friend. "I felt the 
audience slipping from me towards the end ; but 
how can I remedy this ill ? " 

" Nothing easier. Take a reading-master." 

" Do you know one ? " 

" A splendid one ! " 

"And who?" 

" M. Samson.'' 

" Samson, the actor ? " 

"Yes." 

" But I can't take lessons of an actor." 

" Why not ? " 

" Just think of it ! A politician ! a statesman ! 
All the comic papers would make fun of me if it 
were known ! " 

" You are right ! People are just stupid enough 
to turn you into ridicule for studying your profes- 
sion. But rest easy, no one shall know it." 

" You '11 keep my secret ? " 



58 READING AS A FINE ART. 

" Yes ; and Samson too, I promise you." 
So he set to work. Samson placed his voice, 
strengthened it, and made it flexible. He made him 
read aloud page after page of Bossuet, Massillon, 
and Bourdaloue ; he taught him to begin a speech 
slowly and in a low voice : nothing so commands 
silence as a low voice ; people are hushed to hear 
you, and end by listening. These wise lessons bore 
their fruit. Six months later, my friend was a min- 
ister ! I don't say a great minister, but still a 
minister ! I advise all to profit by his example. 
Not that all can be ministers ; but all may be 
obliged to .speak two or three hours daily, whether 
as teachers, politicians, or lawyers. Be prepared ! 
be well armed and equipped ! Remember that no 
one can master his public unless he be master of 
himself ; that no one can master himself unless he 
be master of his voice, and take an elocution-teacher ! 
I am wrong, take two. If you would know any 
thing thoroughly, you should have a tutor as well as 
a teacher ; and that tutor, yourself. Add personal 
observation to your lesson ! Listen to voices as 
you study faces ! Search for natural intonations as 
for sincere friends ; and, above all, study children, 
for here comes in a very singular fact. 

Children are admirable elocution- teachers. What 



READERS AND SPEAKERS. 59 

truth ! what correct intonation ! Their flexible 
organs yielding readily to their ever-changing emo- 
tions, they attain more daring inflections than the 
most skilful actor could imagine ! Did you never 
hear a child repeat some secret which it has dis- 
covered, some mysterious scene it has witnessed, 
like Louisa in the " Malade Imaginaire" ? It will 
imitate every voice, reproduce every accent ! But 
ask the same child directly after, to read that very 
scene from Moliere, and it will begin in the whin- 
ing, nasal, and monotonous tone characteristic of 
juvenile reading. These great reading-masters can- 
not read. In proof of this strange phenomenon, 
let me cite an anecdote which throws much light 
on the question in hand. 

In one of my plays, " Louise de Lignerolles," 
there is one character written for a child, which 
was originally given to a girl of ten, full of grace 
and intelligence. At the general rehearsal, my 
little actress did wonders ; and a spectator, sitting 
in front of me, applauded her loudly, exclaiming, 
" What truth ! what simplicity! it's very evident 
that she 's never been taught to do that ! " 

Now, for a whole month, I had done nothing but 
teach her that part, intonation by intonation. Not 
that it was in any way beyond her childish capa- 



60 READING AS A FINE ART. 

city ; for many of the expressions were borrowed 
from my little actress herself, I being in the habit 
of seeing her constantly. But so soon as these 
expressions were embodied in her part, so soon as 
she had to recite them, every trace of unconscious- 
ness vanished. What she said to perfection when 
she spoke for herself, she uttered coldly and un- 
meaningly when she spoke for another ; and it cost 
me much time and labor to bring her back to her- 
self, to re-teach her what she had taught me. 

It thus appears that reading is so deep an art, 
that it must be taught even to those who reveal it 
to us ! 

I now come to the most interesting point of our 
investigations, — reading considered as a means of 
literary appreciation. 



READING AS A MEANS OF CRITICISM, 6 1 



CHAPTER II. 

READING AS A MEANS OF CRITICISM. 

After listening attentively to my thoughts and 
ideas on this subject, Sainte-Beuve said : " By your 
reckoning, then, a skilful reader is a skilful critic." 

" To be sure," said I, " you are closer to the 
truth than you guessed ; for in what, indeed, does 
the reader's talent lie, if not in rendering all the 
beauties of the works which he interprets ? To ren- 
der them properly, he must of course understand 
them. But the astonishing thing is, that it is his 
very effort to render them well which gives him a 
clearer comprehension of them. Reading aloud 
gives a power of analysis which silent reading can 
never know." 

Sainte-Beuve then asked me to give him an 
example to illustrate my meaning ; and I quoted 
Racine's famous speech on Corneille, which con- 
tains one passage specially remarkable, where he 



62 READING AS A FINE ART. 

draws a comparison between the French theatre 
before and after Corneille. I had often read this 
passage to myself, and admired it much ; but on at- 
tempting to read it aloud, I encountered difficulties 
which surprised me and gave me cause to reflect. 
The second part struck me as heavy, and almost 
impossible to render well. Composed of seventeen 
lines, it yet forms but a single phrase ! Not a 
breathing-place ! Not a period, colon, or even semi- 
colon ! nothing but commas, with clause succeeding 
clause, prolonging the sense just as you deem it com- 
plete, and forcing you to follow it, panting for breath, 
through all its endless mazes ! I reached the end, 
gasping, but thoughtful. Why, I queried, did Ra- 
cine write so long and labored a phrase ? Instinc- 
tively, my eye turned to the first part of the 
fragment. What did I see ? A perfect contrast ! 
Seven sentences in nine lines ! Exclamation-points 
everywhere ! Not a single verb ! A disjointed, 
jerky style ! All was fragmentary and broken ! I 
uttered a cry of joy ; light dawned upon me ! De- 
siring to express the two states of the drama, he 
did more than describe, he painted them in words. 
To represent what he himself calls the chaotic stage 
of the dramatic poem, he employed a violent, abrupt, 
and inartistic style. To give a perfect picture* of 



READING AS A MEANS OF CRITICISM. 63 

dramatic art as Corneille made it, he imagined a 
long and well-turned period, harmonious and con- 
cordant, — similar, in fact, in its labored arrange- 
ment to Corneille's own tragedies, — " Rodogune " 
and " Polyeucte," — in the skilful combination of 
situations and characters. 

This clew once gained, I took up the book, and 
re-read the fragment. Let any one read it accord- 
ingly, and judge for himself : — 

" In what a wretched condition was the French 
stage when Corneille began his labors ! What dis- 
order ! What irregularity ! No taste, no knowledge 
of true dramatic beauty. Authors as ignorant as 
their audience, their themes for the most part extrav- 
agant and improbable, — no morals, no characters ; 
the style of delivery even more vicious than the 
action, miserable puns and witticisms forming the 
chief ornament ; in a word, every rule of art, and 
indeed of decency and propriety, violated. 

" In this infancy, or rather this chaotic state, of 
the dramatic poem in France, Corneille, having long 
sought the right road, and struggled, if I may ven- 
ture to say so, against the bad taste of his age, 
finally, inspired by rare genius and aided by his 
reading of antique literature, produced upon the 



64 READING AS A FINE ART. 

scene reason, but reason accompanied by all the 
pomp and splendor of which the French language 
is capable, brought the wonderful and the proba- 
ble into happy harmony, and left far behind him all 
his rivals, most of whom, despairing of ever keep- 
ing pace with him, and fearing to dispute the prize 
with him, confined themselves to impugning the 
popular plaudits awarded him, and vainly strove, 
by their words and foolish criticisms, to depreciate 
a^ merit which they could not equal. ,, 

I think this proof decisive, this demonstration 
irrefutable. It is evident that the extract assumes 
an entirely novel aspect when read aloud. New 
light falls upon it, and the author's thought is made 
manifest. Shall I add that the very difficulty of 
reading this passage makes it an excellent lesson ? 
I know nothing harder, and therefore more profita- 
ble, than to carry to a successful close this terrible 
seventeen-line-long sentence, without once stop- 
ping by the way, without seeming fatigued, always 
marking by your inflections that the sense is not 
complete, and finally unrolling the whole majestic 
phrase in all its amplitude and superb suppleness. 
My studies as a reader were very useful to me that 
day ; and I inwardly thanked the art which, having 



READING AS A MEANS OF CRITICISM. 65 

given me a true understanding of this fine fragment, 
allowed me to reveal it to others. 

But every medal has its reverse ; and reading 
aloud has its disillusions. If it teaches us to 
admire, it also teaches us to discriminate. Sainte- 
Beuve was right : a reader is a critic, a judge ! — 
a judge to whom many hidden defects are revealed. 
How many sad discoveries I have made in this 
way ! How many books and authors whom I ad- 
mired, — whom others still admire, — failed to resist 
this terrible proof ! We say that a thing stares us 
in the face : we may, with equal justice, say that it 
strikes our ear. The eye runs over the page, skips 
tedious bits, glides over dangerous spots ! But 
the ear hears every thing ! The ear makes no 
cuts ! The ear is delicate, sensitive, and clairvoy- 
ant to a degree inconceivable by the eye. A word 
which, glanced at, passed unnoticed, assumes vast 
proportions when read aloud. A phrase which 
barely ruffled, now disgusts you. The greater the 
size of the audience, the more quick-sighted the 
reader becomes. An electric current is at once 
established between reader and audience, which 
becomes a means of mutual instruction. The 
reader teaches himself while teaching others. He 
needs not to be warned by their murmurs or signs 

5 



66 READING AS A FINE ART. 

of impatience ; their very silence speaks to him ; 
he reads their thoughts, foresees that a certain 
passage will shock, must shock them, long before he 
reaches it: it seems as if his critical faculties, 
roused and set in motion by this formidable con- 
tact with the public, attained a certain power of 
divination ! 



ON READING POETRY. 67 



CHAPTER III. 



ON READING POETRY. 



We now come to a most important point in our 
studies, — the application, namely, of our art to the 
reading of poetry. How should poetry be read ? 
Judging by the present style, even on the stage, 
the great art of reading poetry lies in making peo- 
ple think it prose. I went to see a new play the 
other day, and, in a box close by me, were two 
elegantly dressed ladies. Suddenly, one said to the 
other, " But, my dear, this is poetry ! " and there- 
upon both rose and left the theatre. Nor was it 
the actor's fault that they made this unpleasant 
discovery. He really did his best to disguise the 
monster, breaking, mouthing, and mincing his lines 
to his utmost ability. 

Amateurs, of course, are even worse than pro- 
fessionals, and for a very simple reason. No one 



68 READING AS A FINE ART. 

can know what he has not learned, and very few 
suspect that there is any thing to be learned in this 
direction. Accordingly, I never hear poetry read 
in public without marvelling at the infinite variety 
of ways of reading it badly. Some, under pretext 
of harmony, feel obliged to wrap themselves in an 
unctuous sweetness, which rounds every angle, 
destroys all outlines, and finally produces an in- 
sipid, sickening sensation like that of some muci- 
laginous draught. Others, feigning to seek truth, 
let rhythm, rhyme, and reason go ; and when they, 
by some unlucky chance, remember that the cae- 
sural pause falls on the sixth foot, read boldly, — 

" My spirit is not meet [pause, comma,] for speculation ! " 

To these strange errors let me oppose three 
absolute rules, whose truth I shall hope to exem- 
plify:— 

I. That the art of reading is never so difficult, 
nor so necessary, as when applied to poetry ; and 
that long practice only can make one master of it. 

II. That poetry should be read like poetry, and 
the poets interpreted by a poet. 

III. That their interpreter becomes their con- 
fidant, and that they reveal to him secrets unknown 
to others. 



ON READING POETRY. 69 

A single man will suffice to prove these three 
propositions: I mean La Fontaine. 

Here I must refer to a bit of detail, less a digres- 
sion than a safer, pleasanter road towards our goal. 

From La Fontaine's works I first learned to read. 
My master was a very clever man, almost too clever 
in point of fact. He had a charming voice which he 
used exceedingly well, an expressive face which he 
used to excess ; and he gave me two kinds of les- 
sons, both equally beneficial to me, and by which 
others may profit as well as I : he taught me what 
a reader should do, and what he should avoid doing. 

On one occasion, when he was to read some of 
La Fontaine's fables at the Conservatory, — among 
them the "Oak and the Reed," — he invited me to 
come and hear him, saying : " You shall see how 
a reader who knows his trade presents himself be- 
fore a large audience. 

" I begin by glancing round the room ; my look, 
all-embracing, and accompanied by a very slight 
smile, must be pleasant ; its object is to collect the 
suffrages and sympathy of the audience in advance, 
and to fasten all eyes upon myself. I then make a 
little noise in my throat — hem ! hem ! — as if about 
to begin. But not at all, not yet ! No ! I wait for 
perfect silence to be established. I then extend 



JO READING AS A FINE ART. 

my arm, my right arm, curving my elbow grace- 
fully, — the elbow is the soul of the arm ! Interest 
and attention are excited : I give the title. I give 
it simply, without striving for effect, — I merely act 
the part of a play-bill. I then begin : i The oak 1 , — 
my voice full and round, gesture broad and some- 
what bombastic ! I desire to paint a giant, who 
stands with his head in the clouds and his feet in 
the kingdom of the dead. 

" ' The Oak, one day, said to the Reed — ' 

" Oh ! scarcely a morsel of voice for the word 
' reed/ Make it as small as you can, poor leaflet ; 
mark its insignificance by your tone ; despise it 
thoroughly, look askance at it ! All this very low 
and faint, — as if you saw it at a distance ! " 

You laugh ! and you are quite right. And you 
will laugh still more, when I tell you that in the 
fable of u The Monkey and the Cat," at the lines — 

" One day, our two plunderers watched by the fire 
Rich, ripe nuts a-roasting, with looks of desire " — 

M. Febve rolled the r's to imitate the chestnuts 
crackling before the fire ! Yes, all this is funny, 
is absurd ! And yet, at bottom, it is correct, pro- 
found, and true. It is true that a reader should 



ON READING POETRY. 7 1 

never begin the instant he stands before his audi- 
ence ; true, that he should exchange communicating 
glances with his listeners ; true, that he should give 
his title clearly and simply ; true, finally, that he 
should represent and, as it were, paint his various 
characters by the varying tones of his voice, — and 
if we suppress the exaggeration and affectation 
resultant, we have an excellent and most useful 
lesson, especially in regard to La Fontaine. A 
general impression, now passed into a principle, 
declares that his fables are to be read simply. Cer- 
tainly ! but what do we mean by simply ? Do we 
mean, — let us be plain, — do we mean prosily? If 
so, I say, No ! a thousand times, No ! That is not 
the way to read La Fontaine : that is disfiguring him. 
It is betraying, not translating, him. La Fontaine 
is the most complex of all French poets. No other 
poet unites in himself so many extremes. No 
poetry is so rich in oppositions. His nickname of 
good fellow, and his reputation for simplicity, de- 
ceive us. His character as a man leads us astray 
in regard to his character as a poet. Pen in hand, 
he is the most wily, ingenious, I may say the foxi- 
est, of writers. With La Fontaine, every effect is 
calculated, premeditated, and worked for ; and at 
the same time, by a marvellous faculty, every thing 



72 READING AS A FINE ART. 

is harmonious and natural. All is artistic ; nothing 
artificial. A line, a word, suffices to open vast 
horizons. He is an incomparable painter, unri- 
valled narrator. His character-drawing is almost 
equal to that of Moliere himself. And can we sup- 
pose that all this may and can be rendered simply 
and straightforwardly ? Heaven forbid ! Deep 
study alone confers upon a reader the power of 
understanding and explaining even in imperfect 
fashion such profound art. 

Take, for example, theiable of "The Heron i" 1 

" One day, — no matter when or where, — 
A long-legged heron chanced to fare, 
With his long, sharp beak 
Helved on his long, lank neck." 

Every one must feel the triple repetition of the 
word " long " to be a picturesque effect, which must 
be duly given by the reader. 

" He came to a river's brink, — 
The water was clear and still." 

These two lines cannot be read in one and the 
same way ; the first, simply narrative in style, must 
be simply given. The second is descriptive : the 

1 Adapted from the translation by- Elizur Wright. 



ON READING POETRY. 73 

image must be visible on the reader's lips, as on 
the writer's pen. 

" The carp and the pike there at will 
Pursued their silent fun, 
Turning up ever and anon 
A golden side to the sun ! " 

Oh ! you don't know your trade as a reader if your 
gay, lively, sportive tone does not paint the antics 
of this frolicsome couple ! 

" With ease the heron might have made 
Great profits in the fishing-trade : 
So near came the scaly fry 
They might be caught by the passer-by." 

Simple narrative style. 

" But he thought he better might 
Wait for a smarter appetite." 

Mark this ! here we get an insight into the bird's 
character ! The heron is a sensualist, an epicure, 
rather than a glutton. Appetite is a pleasure to 
those of dainty stomach. Give the word appetite 
that accent of satisfaction always roused by the 
thought or sight of any thing pleasant : we shall 
see directly how useful this slight hint will be. 

" For he lived by rule, and could not eat, 
Except at his hours, the best o: meat." 



74 READING AS A FINE ART. 

Second descriptive verse. The heron is an impor- 
tant personage, and respects himself accordingly. 

"Anon his appetite returned once more.' 
The heron is quite satisfied. 

"Approaching then again the shore, 
He saw some tench taking their leaps, 
Now and then, from the lowest deeps." 

A perfect picture ! an admirable stanza ! It ex- 
presses that romantic feeling which all of us have 
experienced in fishing, when a fish rises slowly- 
through the watery veil, faint and vague at first, but 
growing ever more distinct, until it leaps to the sur- 
face ! Paint all this with your voice ! 

" With as dainty a taste as Horace's rat, 
He turned away from such food as that." 

The character-drawing goes on. 

" What ! tench for a heron ? Poh ! 
I scorn the thought, and let them go." 

Mark the h in heron well ; dwell on it, — make it 
as prominent as his own long legs. 

" The tench refused, there came a gudgeon, 
'For all that,' said the bird, ' I trudge on.'" 

Here he laughs a laugh of scorn ! 



ON READING POETRY. ^ 75 

" I '11 ne'er ope my beak, so the gods please, 
For such mean little fishes as these. 

He did it for less ; 

For it came to pass 
That not another fish could he see ; 
And at last, so hungry was he," — 

Hungry ! Do you see the difference now between 
this and the word " appetite " ? Do you think La 
Fontaine used this neat, sharp little phrase by mere 
chance ? No longer an epicure, the very word is 
brief, pressing, and importunate as the want it 
expresses ! Give all this with your voice, and also 
depict the sudden ending of the tale, scornful and 
summary as a decree of fate : — 

" That he thought it of great avail 
To find on the bank a single snail ! " 

Almost all La Fontaine's fables are susceptible 
of a similar amount of study ; and all great poets 
demand as much research as La Fontaine. Only 
do not forget that there are as many ways of read- 
ing as of writing verse. Racine cannot be read 
like Corneille, Moliere like Regnaud, nor Lamar- 
tine like Victor Hugo. To read is to translate. 
Our diction, therefore, to be good, should be an 
exact reflection of the genius that it interprets. 



76 READING AS A FINE ART. 

Diminish certain faults, disguise certain blemishes, 
hasten over tedious passages, but never be false^ to 
nature ! A reader who applied the simple, natural 
style to " Ruy Bias," would at once deprive it of its 
most prominent quality, — richness of coloring. 
We must be extravagant with the extravagant. 
When we copy Rubens, we don't make a pencil 
drawing ! So, too, every style of poetry has its own 
special manner, in which it should be read. If we 
read an ode like a fable, a lyric strain like a dra- 
matic fragment, we instantly draw a dingy veil of 
uniformity over the superb variety of our literature. 
But the one invariable, fixed rule, applicable to 
every style and reader, — the rule which I repeat as 
the law of laws, — may be summed up in these 
words : Poetry must be read poetically. If it is 
rhythmical, give the rhythm ; if it rhymes, give the 
rhyme. Some may bid you beware of exaggeration 
and bombast ; to beware lest you forget nature : 
but, thank God ! the truth is far beyond the petty 
comprehension of the pedant. 

The next step in our progress leads us to con- 
sider the voice. A conversation which I recently 
held with Victor Cousin may serve to illustrate my 
views of the subject. 

I had been criticising certain poems, and M. 



POWER OF THE VOICE. 77 

Cousin, though agreeing with me, was surprised by 
my theories, and asked me how I came by such 
notions. 

" By reading aloud," I replied. " The voice is a 
revealer, an initiator, whose power is as marvellous 
as it is unknown/' 

" I do not understand." 

" Let me explain. Mme. Talma, a famous ac- 
tress of the last century — " 

" I 've seen her ! " cried Cousin. " What soul ! 
What sensibility ! " 

" Well ! Mme. Talma tells us in her memoirs that, 
when playing * Andromache,' she was once so 
deeply moved that tears flowed, not only from the 
eyes of all her hearers, but from her own as well. 
The tragedy over, one of her admirers rushed to 
her box and, grasping her hand, exclaimed : ' Oh ! 
my dear friend, it was wonderful ! It was Androm- 
ache herself ! I 'm sure that you really felt your- 
self in Epirus, Hector's widow ! ' 

" Not a bit of it ! " she replied, with a laugh. 

" And yet you were really affected, for you wept ! " 

" To be sure, I did." 

" But why ? why ? What made you weep ? " 

" My voice." 

11 What ! your voice ? " 



78 READING AS A FINE ART. 

" Yes, my own voice ! I was touched by the 
expression which my voice gave to the sorrows of 
Andromache, not by the sorrows themselves. The 
nervous shiver which traversed my frame was the 
electric shock produced on my nerves by my own 
tones. For the time being, I was both actress and 
audience. I magnetized myself ! " 

" How strange ! " cried Cousin. 

" And how much light the story throws upon the 
power of the voice ! Nor was this feeling pecul- 
iar to Mme. Talma. Rachel once made a remark 
which I can never forget. She was speaking of 
having recited in the gardens at Potsdam before 
the czar of Russia, emperor of Germany, king of 
Prussia, and other crowned heads, and she said: 
' That audience of kings electrified me. Never 
were my tones more omnipotent; my voice be- 
witched my ears ! ' 

" Nor is this all. One of the greatest French 
actors now living has often told me that he could 
never reach the pitch of emotion which so deeply 
stirs his audience, if he did not learn his parts by 
reciting them aloud. His voice electrifies and 
guides him ! And this is the explanation of the 
seemingly inexplicable fact that actors who are 
utterly stupid may appear brilliantly on the stage." 



POWER OF THE VOICE. 79 

" Impossible ! " 

" I have known such instances ! I have seen 
men of ordinary intellect and sensibility, on the 
stage, mould their hearers to their will, — and 
this because their voice knew, felt, and acted 
for them. Condemn them to silence, and they fall 
back into mediocrity. It seems as if a little fairy 
slumbered in their throat, who woke when they 
spoke, and by waving her wand, roused unknown 
powers in them. The voice is an invisible actor 
hidden within the actor, a mysterious reader 
concealed within the reader, — and serving both as 
prompter. I give you this problem to solve, my 
dear philosopher ; but I draw from it this conclu- 
sion, which I hope you will grant, — that, inferior 
as I am to you in many respects, I do know La 
Fontaine better than you, simply because I read 
him aloud." * 

" So be it ! " said my friend, smiling ; " but who 
can say that you do not attribute intentions which 
they never had to La Fontaine and other great 
men ? " 

" I answer you by a quotation from Corneille. 
Some one once showed him certain obscure verses 
of his own composition, asking for an explanation. 
* When I wrote them,' was his artless reply, ' I 



80 READING AS A FINE ART. 

understood them perfectly ; but now they are as 
vague to me as to you.' You see that there are 
certain things in the works of the masters insolu- 
ble even by themselves. In the fire of creation, 
they instinctively use expressions which they do 
not realize, but which are none the less true. 
Genius, like beauty and childhood, is unconscious 
of self. When a child enchants us by his inno- 
cent smile, he does not know that it is innocent. 
Does this detract from its charm ? One of the 
chief advantages of reading aloud is the fact that it 
reveals countless little shades of meaning in an 
author, ignored even by the hand that wrote them. 
In this way, the art might be used as a powerful 
educational instrument. A fine elocution-teacher 
is often an excellent teacher of literature." 

Upon this we parted, M. Cousin uttering words 
which were very flattering, from such a source : 
" Thanks, my friend, you have taught me some- 
thing new ! " 



A READING, ETC. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A READING AT THE HOUSE OF A GREAT ACTRESS. 

I have striven to describe some of the pleasures of 
the art of reading, and will now conclude with an 
account of an incident in which my poor skill as a 
reader did me good service. 

" Adrienne Lecouvreur " was written for Mile. 
Rachel, at her request, I might say her entreaty ; 
but she spent the months which we used in writ- 
ing, in wearying of the idea. Fickle by fancy, she 
was even more so through her lack of decision ; she 
consulted every one, and every one influenced her. 
A critic's sneers sufficed to disgust her with the 
scheme which most enchanted her five minutes 
before. Such was the fate of " Adrienne." Her 
advisers alarmed her as to the result of this incur- 
sion of the dramatic realm. What ! Hermione 
and Pauline consent to speak in prose ? The 
daughter of Corneille and Racine stoop to become 

6 



82 READING AS A FINE ART. 

the god-child of Scribe ? The very thought was 
sacrilege ! 

On the day appointed for the reading, therefore, 
Rachel appeared, determined to refuse the charac- 
ter. The room was full ; actresses, for they then 
enjoyed critical rights, mingled with the actors, and 
a certain air of solemnity pervading the assembly 
struck me as an evil omen on my entrance. Scribe 
took the manuscript and began to read ; I en- 
sconced myself in an arm-chair and watched. 
Then was unrolled before me a double drama, — our 
own, and that silently playing in the hearts of our 
audience. Vaguely aware of the secret purpose of 
their illustrious comrade, they felt themselves in a 
delicate position. A work written for Rachel, and 
refused by her, might prove the source of serious 
troubles, even legal contests, if accepted by the 
committee. The committee followed the reading 
of " Adrienne" on Rachel's face. That face being 
utterly impassive, so were theirs. During the five 
long acts she never smiled, she never applauded, 
nor in any way approved : neither did they. So 
complete was the general silence, that Scribe, fan- 
cying one of his hearers on the eve of slumber, 
interrupted his reading to say, " No ceremony, my 
dear fellow, I beg." The gentleman warmly pro- 



A READING, ETC. 83 

tested ; and this was the sole incident of the read- 
ing. Stay ! I am wrong ; there was another, or an 
attempt at one : in the fifth act, at the scene before 
the last, Rachel, involuntarily struck by the situa- 
tion, leaned forward in her chair, in whose depths 
she had hitherto been buried, and listened as if 
deeply interested ; but, seeing that I was looking at 
her, she instantly fell back and resumed her icy 
mask. The reading over, Scribe and I went into 
the manager's office, where he soon joined us, 
and told us with an expression of regret, which we 
accepted as sincere, that Rachel did not consider the 
part suited to her, and that, the work having been 
composed for her, the committee had concluded 
to consider the reading null and void. " In other 
words," said Scribe, " our play is rejected ? Very 
well ! Patient waiters, are no losers." Next day, 
three different managers came for our play. Scribe 
longed for a speedy vengeance, and desired to accept 
one of these offers, but I absolutely refused. " My 
dear friend," said I, " the play was written for the 
Theatre Fran^ais, — it must be played there. The 
part was written "for Rachel, — she must play it." 
" But how can we make her take it ? " 
"That I don't know. But do it, we must. Dur- 
ing our labors, so large a share of which fell to you, 



84 READING AS A FINE ART, 

you did me the honor to say that I understood the 
character of Adrienne better than you. And, in- 
deed, I always felt the entire originality of the great 
actress, filled by the noble sentiments of the hero- 
ines she enacts, the interpreter of Corneille, in 
whose veins runs some portion of Corneille's spirit ! 
Such a character can appear nowhere save on the 
stage of Corneille ! " My tone of conviction con- 
quered Scribe, though he was loath to yield. The 
managers renewed their offers and entreaties, one 
of them saying to tempt us : " My leading lady has 
never died on the stage, and she would be so glad 
of a chance to take poison !'" But even this argu- 
ment, powerful as it was, failed to persuade me ; and 
six months elapsed without fresh results. Scribe 
then declared that he could wait no longer. 

"Give me a week," was my reply. "You are 
going to Sericourt for a week, and if on your re- 
turn I have gained nothing, I will surrender." 

" So be it ; I '11 expect you to breakfast, a week 
from to-day, at eleven." 

He set off, and I executed the following plan of 
action. 1 

1 I am forced in this brief recital to speak much more of my- 
self than of Scribe ; but I should be very sorry to have any one 
attribute this to a desire on my part to claim the chief merit of 
our play : if our shares could be measured, his would certainly 
be the larger. 



A READING, ETC, 85 

A new manager had lately been chosen at the 
Theatre Fran^ais ; to him I went, and said : " You 
know that Mile. Rachel refused our play. I don't 
know whether this refusal was a mistake or not, 
but the form of it was certainly a great wrong to 
us. People don't return a piece of ordered work to 
a man like Scribe ; they don't insult a genius of the 
foremost rank, and, permit me to say it, a young 
man who is not of the lowest. Rachel should be 
made to feel this and suffer for it ; even talent like 
hers should pay some regard to the proprieties of 
life. Now, there is one way of reconciling every 
thing, — both her interests and ours. I ask her, not 
to play our piece, but to hear it ; not at the theatre, 
in presence of her fellow-actors, but at her own 
house, before a few friends whom she shall choose : 
she may invite whom she likes, and I will come alone 
with my manuscript. If the work displease this 
new committee, I will accept their opinion as a 
righteous judgment. If it please them and her, 
she shall play it : she will make a great hit, and 
hail me as her savior." The offer was made and 
accepted, Rachel saying to a friend, " I can't refuse 

Legouve, but I will never play that ." The 

word was too expressive, too vulgar for print. An 
appointment was made for two days later, and the 



86 READING AS A FINE ART. 

judges chosen by the fair artist were Jules Janin, 
Merle, Rolle, and the manager of the Theatre 
Frangais. 

I was slightly agitated, no doubt, but master of 
myself ; I was sure that I was right, and was well 
armed for battle. Scribe was a fine reader, and he 
read our play wonderfully well, save in one particu- 
lar. To my mind, he did. not sufficiently identify 
the part of Adrienne with Rachel ; he read it with 
much grace, spirit, and warmth, but as one would 
read any young "leading lady's " part: it lacked 
grandeur ; the heroine was not visible beneath the 
woman. Now, this was the very point by which 
I hoped to tame and accustom Rachel to this novel 
character. The task was both difficult and danger- 
ous for her ; therefore, the difficulties must be 
lessened, the dangers smoothed away ; the reader's 
voice must point out to her, in advance, the 
gradation from one line of character to another, 
and convince her that what the public might regard 
as an utter metamorphosis, to her would be but a 
change of dress. This was the shade of meaning 
which I thought Scribe did not sufficiently mark, 
and which I had been studying for forty-eight 
hours. 

I arrived, and was most agreeably received with 



. A READING, ETC. - 87 

that caressing grace natural to Rachel. She her- 
self mixed me a glass of sugar and water, brought 
me a chair, and even drew the curtains aside to 
give me better light ! But I, who knew that famous 

phrase, " I'll never play that ," I inwardly 

laughed at this excess of courtesy, especially as I 
guessed its purpose ! For how could any one sus- 
pect ill-will or prejudice in a listener so graciously 
ready to hear ? 

I began. Throughout the first act, Rachel ap- 
plauded, smiled, and in fact did just the contrary 
to what she did at the committee meeting. Why ? 
oh ! why ? I easily guessed her motive ; her plans 
were well laid. She wanted to give the excuse that 
the part did not suit her. Now, Adrienne not 
appearing in the first act, Rachel ran no risk in 
praising it ; her very eulogies would give an im- 
partial air to her subsequent reserve, and a flavor 
of sincerity to the regrets which would accompany 
her refusal. But her cunning was of no avail, for 
as soon as her friends saw these signs of satisfac- 
tion, they joined in them, — their hands became 
wonted to applause. The reader, cheered by their 
plaudits, grew animated ; and I began the second 
act with my public well in hand, all sails set and 
driven forward by the breezes of success, — by that 



88 READING AS A FINE ART. 

electric current familiar to all dramatists, which sud- 
denly runs around a hall when victory is secure. 

In the second act, Adrienne appears, holding in 
her hand her part in " Bajazet," which she is study- 
ing. The Prince de Bouillon approaches, and asks 
gallantly, " What are you seeking now ? " She re- 
plies : " Truth ! " " Bravo ! " cried Janin. Hullo ! 
thought I, here 's a friend ! for, after all, the phrase 
did not deserve a bravo. Rachel also turned to Janin, 
with a look that said : " Have we a traitor in the 
camp ? " Luckily, the traitor's opinion soon became 
the general one. Rachel, surprised and somewhat 
embarrassed at her inability to remain impassive 
as before, yielded, after a faint resistance, to the 
universal feeling ; and merely said, after the second 
act, which was warmly applauded : " Well, I always 
thought that the best act ! " This was her last 
semblance of defence : in the third act, she boldly 
cast her former judgment to the winds, as certain 
politicians do their early opinions. She ap- 
plauded, laughed, cried, and constantly exclaimed, 
" What a fool I was ! " and at the close of the fifth 
act she fell upon my neck, embraced me heartily, 
and said, "How is it that you never turned actor ?" 
The reader had saved the author ! This pleased 
and flattered me much ; for some time previous, on 



A READING, ETC. 89 

hearing Guizot speak, she cried : " Oh ! how I 
should like to play tragedy with that man ! " Next 
day, at precisely eleven o'clock, I entered Scribe's 
apartment. " Well ! " said he mockingly, " what 
have you accomplished ? " My only answer was 
to pull a paper from my pocket and read aloud : 
" Theatre Frangais, to-day at noon, rehearsal of 
' Adrienne Lecouvreur.' " 

He uttered an exclamation of surprise, and I told 
him the whole story. A month later, the curtain 
rose on the first performance. This month greatly 
enlightened me as to the mysteries and peculiarities 
of theatrical life, and I well remember one character- 
istic story. Shortly before the first performance 
of "Adrienne," there was no performance at the 
theatre on account of an evening rehearsal. Scribe, 
• being detained at the opera-house by preparations 
for the " Prophet," did not come ; the first four acts 
brought us to eleven o'clock. Most of the company 
went home, leaving Rachel, Regnier, Maillard, and 
myself alone. Rachel turned to me suddenly, say- 
ing: " Now we have the theatre to ourselves, let us 
try the fifth act, which we have never yet rehearsed ! 
I 've been working at it alone for three days, and I 
want to see what I can do with it." There was 
neither gas nor foot-light ; the only rays that fell 



90 READING AS A FINE ART. 

upon the stage came from the traditional lamp 
standing by the empty prompter's box ; the only 
spectators were the fireman on duty slumbering in 
his chair between two side scenes, and myself in 
the orchestra. From the beginning, I was deeply 
affected by Rachel's tone ; I never saw her so natu- 
ral, so simple, so profoundly tragic ; the reflections 
of the smoky lamp cast a frightfully livid hue 
over her face, and the empty hall echoed back 
her voice in weird reverberation : "it was mourn- 
ful in the extreme ! The act over, we left the 
theatre. As we passed a mirror in the corri- 
dor, I was struck by my pallor, and even more so 
by that of Regnier and Maillard. As for Rachel, 
silent and aloof, shaken by a nervous tremor, she 
wiped away the tears still flowing from her eyes. 
I went to her, and, in lieu of any words of praise, 
showed her the agitated faces of her comrades ; 
then taking her hand, said : — 

" My dear friend, you played that fifth act as 
you never will again ! " 

" So I think/' she replied ; " and do you know 
why it was ? " 

"Yes; because there was no one to applaud 
you. You had no thought of effect ; and thus 
you became, for the time being, to yourself, poor 



A READING, ETC. 9 1 

Adrienne dying at midnight, in the arms of two 
faithful friends." 

She was silent for a moment, then replied : — 
" You are wrong ! A miracle yet more strange 
was wrought within me : it was not for Adrienne 
I wept, it was for myself ! Something, I know 
not what, suddenly told me that I should die young 
like her. I seemed to be in my own room, at my 
last hour, assisting at my own death ; and when at 
the words, ' Farewell, dramatic triumphs ! farewell, 
intoxicating blisses of an art that I have loved so 
fondly ! ' you saw me shed genuine tears, it was 
because I was thinking with anguish and despair 
that time would obliterate every lingering memory 
of my genius ; and that soon — nothing would be 
left of her who was Rachel ! " 

Alas ! she was right. A very few years later, 
she died like her sister Rebecca, and of the same 
fatal malady, at Cannet, a little village in Southern 
France. She was received with loving hospitality 
by one of Sardou's family, at a strange villa where 
the mystical fancy of the owner had accumulated 
and mingled in odd confusion images and symbols 
of various Oriental religions. On the day of her 
arrival, she was so exhausted by her journey that 
she went immediately to sleep. But waking at 



92 • READING AS A FINE ART. 

midnight, she uttered a shriek of terror. The bed 
on which she lay was shaped like a tomb, and at 
'the foot was a female figure leaning forward as if 
to seize her. It was a wood carving, intended to 
hold back the curtains. " Death ! death ! " she 
screamed, flinging herself from the bed. Her last 
days were passed in those alternations of hope and 
gloomy premonition peculiar to her disease. She 
often said : " I hope six hours of the day, and the 
rest of the time despair ! " Her cruel sufferings 
were ever and anon sculpturesquely translated into 
the most graceful and beautiful of attitudes, — atti- 
tudes of which she was well aware ; for never, amid 
the fiercest agony, whether mental or physical, does a 
great artist lose self-consciousness: he is an eternal 
spectacle unto himself ; great as may be his despair, 
he watches it with argus eyes. Rachel felt her own 
elegance as she posed for a young invalid : she 
seemed to herself a beautiful statue of Grief ! 

Chance taking me to Cannet, I hastened to Sar- 
dou's home ; she was unable to see me, but next 
day sent me a most grateful letter, concluding with 
these flattering words : " No one else writes female 
characters as you do ; promise that you will write 
a play for my re-appear ance^ Three days later 
she was dead ! 



A READING, ETC. 93 

I feel sure of the pardon of my readers for yield- 
ing to the thronging memories which crowd upon 
me ; but this brief digression to one of the greatest 
exemplars of the elocutionary art seems to me to 
merit a place in this study of elocution. 



94 READING AS A FINE ART. 



CHAPTER V. 



CLOSING WORDS. 



This sketch is dedicated to the pupils of the High 
and Normal School. Let me, in conclusion, recom- 
mend it to the masters, mistresses, and scholars of 
our primary schools. 

Written for the elect of the University, it may be 
doubted whether my book is adapted to the more 
modest representatives of the science of education. 

Let others judge of this. 

Some days since, at the invitation of a superin- 
tendent of girls' schools, I visited a primary and a 
normal school in a quarter of Paris by no means 
poor. I was asked to hear the children and future 
teachers read ; and, on doing so, two things chiefly 
struck me in the children, — namely, their weak 
voices and their absolute lack of punctuation. They 
read as if their vocal chords had no strength, and 
their sentences neither periods nor commas. 



CLOSING WORDS. 95 

This was not the result of natural weakness of 
the organs of speech ; for, when they answered 
questions put to them, their tones instantly became 
round and clear. It was due to timidity, caused 
by inexperience, ignorance, and bad habits. They 
had absolutely no idea how to manage their 
voices. 

In the young teachers of the future, I found the 
qualities of correctness and grace of diction ; but 
the mechanical and technical part of the art of 
reading was entirely wanting. Their very skilful 
teacher can afford them but too slight a portion of 
his time. 

And is it a matter of indifference that the mas- 
ters, mistresses, and pupils of primary schools re- 
main in this crass ignorance ? 

Let others, again, be judges. 

The head-teacher of the Normal School tells me 
that of twenty girls who leave her to teach primary 
schools, two or three return to her every year, with 
such severe throat-troubles that they are obliged to 
give up their profession. 

There is, therefore, no one to whom the art of 
reading is more necessary, — since learning to read 
also includes learning to breathe, to punctuate, to 
spare one's strength ; and since vocal exercises are 



96 READING AS A FINE ART. 

the most wholesome of gymnastics. To strengthen 
the voice is to strengthen the whole system ; to 
strengthen the voice is not only to develop vocal 
power, but also the power of lungs and larynx, as 
the following anecdote may prove. Previous to 
1848, M. Fortoul-was chosen professor of a pro- 
vincial college. He hesitated to accept, the morbid 
delicacy of his throat making him dread the fatigue 
of teaching. "Accept," said his doctor; "public 
speaking in a large hall will strengthen your throat, 
provided you learn to speak properly first." He 
accepted, studied, strove, succeeded ; and at the 
end of the year found himself four thousand francs 
richer and a well man. 

What is true of the technical part of reading is 
also true of its intellectual part. What a new and 
powerful means of good might be exerted by any 
one who would gradually initiate the lower and ru- 
ral classes, by reading aloud to them, into an even 
imperfect knowledge of the beauties of literature ! 
Is not a lesson in a nation's genius a lesson in its 
history as well ? Is it not a moral duty to rivet 
and multiply in every way the bonds uniting the 
people to their country's intellectual glory ? Have 
not the people hearts, minds, and imaginations ? 
And, without quitting the field of education, what 



CLOSING WORDS. 97 

more potent aid can a scholar have than reading ? 
Memory is one of the greatest instruments of in- 
struction, and reading aloud teaches the pupil the 
best use of this instrument. Does not a child learn 
a thousand times faster, and remember much longer, 
if, instead of laboring to hammer words and phrases 
into his mind by dint of mere mechanical repetition, 
he absorbs them by his reason and feeling, — that is, 
by his comprehension of the meaning and beauty 
of a work ? Nothing is more conducive to learning 
a thing by rote than to understand and admire it. 

In the name, then, of physical and mental well- 
being, I demand that the art of reading aloud shall 
be ranked among the principal branches of public 
education in France as well as in America ! I claim 
for the people, first, a thorough course of instruc- 
tion in reading in our normal schools ; second, a 
prize for reading in our primary schools. There is 
no true progress in education save that which 
begins in childhood and with the people ; and in a 
democracy, all being done by all, all should be done 
for all ! 



Cambridge : Press of John Wilson & Son. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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